Brotherly Love
by FluffytheHedgehog
Summary: Gavroche and Grantaire are like brothers, and are very close. When Gavroche is shot at the barricade, Grantaire refuses to believe he is gone. Is he right, or is Gavroche dead? One way of another, they will meet again. Rated T for language. Story better than summary!
1. Chapter 1

**This is my first fanfic of Les Miserables, so please be nice. I welcome all reviews! This story will be about Gavroche and Grantaire, but strictly in a non-romantic way. I mean, Gavroche is about ten years old. They'll be more like close brothers here. This is based off of the book (unabridged) and the movie. Enjoy and again, please review!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables or the characters in any way. If I did, I would be dead for a while now. I only own my OC's, which is basically just Jean-Pierre Gaspard.**

* * *

Gavroche knew in his heart that when he joined the revolutionaries at the barricade, there was almost no chance of his surviving. And yet, he still went. Perhaps he was tired of being a gamin, tired of running around in the streets. Sure, it could be fun, but behind the mask of jovial cockiness was a lost boy without a loving family. And so, he chose to fight for the barricade. At least he could go down in flames and glory – better than getting gutted by Patron-Minette in the dead of night.

But now, watching Eponine die in Marius's arms, it didn't seem like such a good idea to him anymore. He felt sorry for his sister. Gavroche had seen the way she followed after Marius like a lost puppy. She was in love with him, but he was completely oblivious. And now Eponine was dying from a bullet that was meant to be for him.

Suddenly, Combeferre shouted out. "We haven't got enough ammunition!" Gavroche spotted the dead National Guardsmen through a tiny hole in the barricade, still sporting their mostly-full cartridges and powder kegs. Without a second thought, he climbed into the framework of the barricade and out the other side. He could tell that the fog was thick enough to hide his small form from the eyes – and the bullets – of the National Guard. He wasn't going to carelessly throw his life away.

Gavroche found a whole basket of cartridges right next to him. He could hear the Amis shouting his name and commanding him to go back, but he ignored them. He hummed a little tune under his breath as he continued harvesting the ammunition.

* * *

Jean-Pierre Gaspard of the National Guard was deeply shaken. Never before had he seen such a rebellion, such determined foes. One of them had even threatened to blow the damned thing! He shuddered. They were clearly out of their minds. However, the National Guard were just as determined as they, and would give them what they deserved – an impromptu firing squad, and good riddance!

Now both sides were resting, but keeping up a sharp lookout. Gaspard settled in, resigning himself to a cold, sleepless night in the dirt. He took a last, fleeting glance towards the barricade – and froze. A small, child-like form was moving around, picking up things and putting them in what seemed to be a basket. The fog that had concealed the figure was thinner here, closer to the resting army. Gaspard was delighted and confused – delighted at the chance to rid the blasted barricade of a fighter, but confused because it seemed to be no more than a child.

His fellow men were stirred, seeing the figure. The captain signaled sharply – they were to keep silent. Gaspard smiled cruelly, realizing the plan. They would give their victim no sign of attack – until the bullets ripped through his body.

* * *

All the Amis were clustered at the top of the barricade, shouting and crying out to Gavroche. Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Feuilly, Joly, Bossuet, Bahorel, Prouvaire, even Marius – they were all there, except for Grantaire. He came staggering drunkenly out of the café.

"Wass goin on?" he slurred. Then he caught sight of Gavroche, exposed for all to see. Immediately his drunken demeanor disappeared. Grantaire sprinted up the barricade and would have charged down had Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and Bahorel not grabbed hold of him, forcing him to stay in place. Courfeyrac was silently crying, tears flowing down his face.

"GAVROCHE!" Grantaire bellowed, half sobbing. "GAVROCHE, COME BACK!" He broke down, weeping, as he continued to shout the little gamin's name.

"Why won't he listen?" Combeferre cried desperately. "He'll get himself killed!" At this, Grantaire's weeping intensified considerably.

Most of the Amis were either weeping or on the verge of tears. They kept calling to the little gamin they all loved, the little gamin who just wouldn't listen to their pleading cries. Up on top of the barricade, they could just barely trace Gavroche through the encroaching fog. He continued nearer and nearer to the National Guard, until he was right next to them. Grantaire was almost hysterical for the boy he considered as family.

Enjolras went rigid. At this opportunity, Grantaire managed to wriggle out of his grasp, but Prouvaire and Marius grabbed him. He could see…but no, it couldn't be. They wouldn't fire upon a mere child…would they? For just beyond Gavroche, a line of Guardsmen were slowly and carefully standing up, aiming their rifles at the boy.

The Amis' cries died away. Grantaire even stopped struggling. They all waited, fearing the worse, hoping for the best. If the Guardsmen fired, Gavroche would be lost. But perhaps, just perhaps, the gamin would move out of their line of sight…

* * *

Gavroche slowly drifted farther and farther away from the barricade, his friends' shouts reduced to so much white noise. He was thinking – thinking about his parents, thinking about Eponine, thinking about the two little gamins who should be sleeping in the elephant as of now. He felt a pang of worry; had they found their way back, had they remembered how to keep the rats out? Or were they lying somewhere on a street, freezing to death?

He thought of the Amis, crying out his name again and again. He thought of Grantaire, who had always loved him like a brother, who had treated him best. Grantaire would be wild with worry. "Don't worry, Grantaire," Gavroche whispered into the night. "I'll come back, you'll see, everything'll be fine."

He didn't realize when the fog started thinning, didn't realize when the muffled shapes of the National Guardsmen started appearing out of the darkness. He didn't realize when they started raising their guns to aim at him and his friends' cries stopped abruptly. His mind was fixed on a group of bodies a few feet away, sure to provide a great number of cartridges – and then he would go back. The basket was overflowing anyways.

Something, some sixth sense, caused him to turn towards the sleeping army, to see the line of Guardsmen all aiming for him. And then it was too late.

* * *

Gaspard held his breath, waiting for the moment to shoot. He grinned again, his cheek pressed into the butt of his rifle. The little gamin – for he could be seen quite clearly now – had no chance, absolutely no chance at all. Twenty men had him in their sights; twenty men were ready to see him fall. And they would.

The gamin turned slightly, caught sight of them. Gaspard could imagine his eyes widening. The captain raised his arm, gave the O.K.

The boy had no time to run, no time to take even one step.

Twenty guns fired simultaneously.

* * *

The Amis held their breath, not daring to hope. Gavroche suddenly turned towards the line of rifles.

Grantaire found himself praying, something he hadn't done for longer than he could remember. If wasn't a proper prayer, just a mindless wishing. _Dear God above, let this gamin live, Dear God above, let him live, let Gavroche live, let the boy live, let him live, let him live let him live…_

The sound of guns firing echoed in Grantaire's ears as he saw Gavroche jerk and collapse. And then he was falling, falling, into an endless tunnel of anguish and nothing mattered except that Gavroche was dead, Gavroche was dead, _Gavroche was dead!_

His friends' faces swam above him, and then they disappeared entirely into the unrelenting black grief.

* * *

**What did you think? Please review! I'm not sure where I got the name Jean-Pierre Gaspard from, I think it's got something to do with a Jean-Luc Gaspard but I don't remember who he is. :) I've got a second chapter ready, will update when it's all edited up!**


	2. Chapter 2

**And we're back with chapter two! This is the emotional part, so be prepared (maybe with a tissue box). This is mostly Grantaire with a little National Guard thrown in, but Gavroche will be making a reappearance in future chapters. Yay!**

**Thanks to the (4) people who reviewed! To Emma, AnimeWolfAlienRaptor4, Gavroche T, and Kchan88, thank you so much for the positive reviews! I really appreciate it. **

**This is a pretty fast update, later it'll probably be a chapter a week. It's just that my mind overflows with ideas in the beginning, and then the dreaded writer's block makes it's appearance! :( Haven't hit that yet, and I hope I won't. But let's get on with the story already!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables in any way. I am neither a musical genius nor dead, so there you go. All I own are my OC's, Jean-Pierre Gaspard and introducing…*spotlight* Arsenault! New OC in this chapter. (By the way, I found out where I got Jean-Pierre from. Originally he was Jean-Luc Gaspard, from the movie Mr. and Mrs. Smith. He was mentioned in passing after their fight (in the movie, not this fanfic). So I'm gonna stop now because this note is really getting too long.) Enjoy and review!**

* * *

It was done. The boy, whoever he was, had fallen. Jean-Pierre Gaspard felt a vindictive – and cowardly – rush of accomplishment as he watched the gamin jerk and fall. He could tell that his comrades felt it too; it was written on their faces, in their cruel smiles. The captain burst into laughter, and Gaspard and the others joined in.

"How can you laugh?" A voice demanded, and the mirth fell into an icy silence. It was Arsenault – of course it was. Ever since the whining brat had joined the National Guard, he had been complaining, saying the Guard had no morals and no sense of right or wrong. He was just making excuses for not having the balls to shoot someone, Gaspard thought dismissively. For the life of him, he didn't know why Arsenault had been allowed to stay in the Guard for so long without firing so much as one bullet at the enemy.

"A child – a mere child! – has just been slaughtered, _murdered_, and you have the gall to _laugh?!_" Gaspard sneered at him. They had every right in the world to kill that boy – he was helping those idiotic bastards at the barricade! Next Arsenault would be asking them to cease fighting and negotiate with the rebels. Gaspard snorted derisively.

His thoughts were interrupted by Arsenault's voice. "Twenty guns against an undefended child – what honor is there in that? Tell me, does that make you feel righteous? Does that make you feel like heroes? That you have murdered an innocent boy? _What honor is there in that?_" Nobody answered, not even the captain. Gaspard wasn't surprised; every time Arsenault had spoken out, the captain stood and watched. He didn't understand how those in command could just let an idiot spew forth his moronic views of the world. Gaspard had had enough. One more word out of that mouth, and he would tear Arsenault apart.

"The answer is, there is no honor in slaughtering a child. You are a bunch of cowards, too afraid to pick on someone your own size! Then, when you find someone smaller and weaker, you gang up on them twenty to one! What happened to the National Guard that was just and good and would not fire upon a boy not ten years of age? What happened to the National Guard that everyone looked up to and felt respect for, instead of fear?" That did it. Gaspard shot to his feet, grinning briefly to himself before letting his face fall into a mask of icy indifference.

"What would you know of honor, _bricon_?" He spat the word out. "You, who have never slain a man?"

"So you must kill to gain honor, now?" Arsenault faced the entire National Guard. "I remember when I was boy and my father would tell tales of honor and glory. The heroes of old, defending castle and country with their lives, never took life wantonly. They spared the innocent, imprisoned the guilty, but never took a life unless there was no other choice. They would rather have died than take an innocent life. Let me ask all of you: can any of you honestly say you would rather die than kill an innocent?" He waited, his head held high. Nobody moved.

"I thought as much." He turned to the captain. "I am sorry, but I cannot remain in the company of such men. I resign." Gaspard waited for the captain to explode – resignation from the National Guard was unheard of – but he did nothing. _It is up to me, as usual_. He stepped forward until he was face to face with Arsenault.

"Where will you go, _faible_?" He hissed. "Will you join the rebels, tell them our secrets?" He spat in his face. "_Putain traître!_"

Arsenault calmly pushed past Gaspard. He wiped his face, almost disdainfully. He faced the army again. "I will go find the poor child, to see if he is still living. Then I shall return home." He bowed. "Thank you." Without another word, he turned and walked into the fog.

"Ha!" Gaspard shouted after him. "The gamin does not have a chance! He was shot by twenty bullets; he is not invincible!" He spat again. Arsenault did not turn back, disappearing into the mist.

* * *

Grantaire slowly clawed his way back up to reality, the grief weighing on him like a brick. His friends were clustered around him, looking worried. A sigh of relief escaped a few lips when they saw he was awake. Some were still crying, and the rest had tears in their eyes.

Grantaire took a slow, shuddering breath. A need to release his emotion swept over him, and he sat up so suddenly that Combeferre almost fell over.

"Lie down, Grantaire. You need rest." Enjolras sounded different, like he had aged fifty years. He gently pushed Grantaire back onto the table they were using as a bed. "You've been out of it for almost fifteen minutes."

Grantaire didn't fight against Enjolras, lying back down. His eyes were filled with an emotion that had never been there before: burning anguish barely held in check by the force of his will. "I'm going to kill those bastards," he said. Grantaire was proud of how calm and controlled he sounded, when really he was straining to keep his head clear.

"I'll help. We'll all help," said a white-faced Courfeyrac. His cheeks were streaked with tears that still dripped down. His voice trembled and threatened to break. "We'll get those sons of bitches who…who would kill…" He turned away, his body shaking.

This was almost too much for Grantaire, and his fragile hold on the world wavered. He fought it back and concentrated on revenge. Ah, revenge…what a sweet and cruel word. Yet nothing could compensate for…for _his_ death, not even torturing those cowards who would fire on an undefended child.

_Gavroche_.

A flood of memories overwhelmed Grantaire's mind, taking him three months back.

"Y'know, Grantaire, I do believe you drink too much," Gavroche had commented, watching Grantaire down his third bottle of whisky that night.

"I'm fine," he said, amazingly still sober. Usually, he would already be piss-drunk by then, but he always made an effort to appear somewhat presentable in front of Gavroche. "It doesn't affect me, when I don't want it to." He took another swig.

"And you want it to affect you sometimes?" Gavroche looked unconvinced. Grantaire grinned.

"Here, let me show you." Gavroche stepped back, and Grantaire laughed. "I'm not gonna hurt you, you silly little gamin." He put the bottle on the table and closed his eyes. He let the alcohol sweep over the barriers in his mind he had carefully constructed years before, ready for use at a moment's notice. His brain was already feeling foggy. "See? Told ya." He walked forward, but ended up staggering instead.

Gavroche looked on in delight. It was absolutely hilarious to watch Grantaire staggering about, bumping into people and muttering slurred apologies. He knew it was real; Grantaire had never been a great actor. "Okay, 'Taire!" he finally said. His felt his sides bursting with laughter. "I believe you!"

Grantaire stumbled back and closed his eyes again, swaying slightly. This was the hard part, but he was sure it would work. He mentally forced the alcoholic effects out of his mind, sweeping them out and restoring the barriers. When he opened his eyes, he was back to normal.

Gavroche laughed loudly. "You…you…you…hahaha!" he choked on his mirth. Grantaire sauntered over, grinning, and tousled the boy's unruly dark brown hair. "Hey!" he said happily, dodging away.

"Grantaire…_Grantaire!_" A voice intruded on his memories, washing them away. Joly peered at him worriedly. "Are you alright?"

"Yes…Yes, I'm…I'm fine…"Grantaire felt tears fill his eyes. He forced them back. The Amis were silent, watching him apprehensively as if he were mad. He sighed and closed his eyes, thinking. _He_ had always had a strange effect on Grantaire, making him weirdly protective. Even when he was almost driven mad by that sharp tongue, he couldn't bear to lay a hand on the dear little gamin. If it was anyone else, he would have knocked them flat out. But never _him, _he would die before he laid a hand on Gavroche.

_Gavroche._

It was amazing how two insignificant syllables could cause so much pain, even in his mind. _Your loved ones never really leave you,_ he thought with a twisted smile. They never really did, at least the pain didn't. _Did I love him, then? He was like a brother to me._ Grantaire mused on those words. _Like a brother. I loved him like a brother. _He realized that he was using the past tense, and another bolt of pain hit him.

Grantaire slammed his head back on the table, trying to clear his mind of the agonizing thoughts. Of course, it didn't work; he could never forget the boy. Why did it have to be _him_? Why did _he_ have to die? Grantaire replayed _his_ last moments over and over, praying for him, watching him spasm and fall, _oh God oh God_…

"WHY DID IT HAVE TO BE HIM!" Grantaire howled, causing his friends to jump. He couldn't hold it in anymore; it burst out like the breaking of a dam. Tears, hot and salty, ran down his cheeks and flowed onto his neck and clothes. He wept and wept, gripping his hair. Grantaire felt the comforting hands of his comrades, patting him on the back, rubbing his shoulder, embracing him. They whispered soothing words to him: _it's okay, you're okay, I know it hurts now, but it'll pass._ But they were wrong, it wasn't okay, he wasn't okay, the pain would never go away without _him_. He would always feel the grief whenever something reminded him of his best friend, his brother. Gavroche.

"_Gavroche!_" He put all the crushing grief, the hot anguish, and the fiery anger into that one word. Then he fell silent.

Grantaire was empty, everything was gone. His emotion, his tears, Gavroche – all gone. He had nothing to live for anymore. Except…

Hope gripped him tightly, even though he did not want to feel it. To have hope, and then have that hope destroyed by the cold unfeeling truth…that would kill him in a very real sense. But he couldn't help it. There was still hope.

He straightened suddenly. When Gavroche had fallen, he had succumbed to the blackness. But he hadn't seen Gavroche _stay_ down, had he? There was a chance, however small, that Gavroche was still alive – terribly wounded, but alive. Perhaps he was crawling to the barricade even now, or lying there, twitching.

Grantaire jumped off the table, brushing past his friends without a second glance. He sped out the barricade, climbing over it hastily. He sprinted flat out to the spot where he had seen Gavroche fall, seen him fall, but _hadn't seen him stay down_. He found himself praying again, _Please let him be there, please let him be alive let him be alive let him be alive let him be alive…_

When he got there, he simply stared, not wanting to believe his eyes.

* * *

As soon as Arsenault's form disappeared, the captain roughly grabbed Gaspard by the collar of his jacket and dragged him over to the side, where the others couldn't hear. He was released with a shove that sent him sprawling into the dirt.

"Doddering fool!" the captain spat. "Do you have any idea what you have done? Do you?" Gaspard was confused. He had just chased a traitor from the National Guard, and the captain was pushing down and yelling at him? He hadn't done anything to incite such anger, had he?

The captain stabbed a finger in the direction of the mist. "You don't know who he is, do you? Well, let me tell you, my friend." He crouched down and shoved his face into Gaspard's. "That is the son-in-law of one of the greatest donors to the Guard. He is the son-in-law of the person who gives 150,000 francs a year for supplies, guns, and ammunition. Why do you think none of us had reprimanded him for being a prancing, preaching softie?" He snorted. "It was all about the money, as always. The Guard never has enough. His father-in-law offered double the usual amount for this year, if we would humor him. And we had, until you and your stupidity came along!" The captain stood up, brushing off his trousers. "Look, you're a good man and a good soldier, Gaspard. But know this: never do something I don't tell you to, at least not while you're in the service of the Nation Guard. Got it?" Gaspard nodded. "Good. Now get your sorry ass over there with the others."

Gaspard stood up and loped over to the clustered soldiers. "What was that about?" whispered a voice. He gave a noncommittal grunt that clearly meant _none of your business._ Then he felt it – that creeping feeling on the back of his neck that told him there was prey about. Slowly, he turned to face the fog. There, right where the boy had fallen, was a shape – the shape of a man.

He knew at once that it couldn't be Arsenault; he was slim as a twig. This man was more heavily built and looked powerful. But something about the set of his shoulders told Gaspard that this man, whoever he was, was tired or bore the weight of sorrow – or both. The man would not notice the Guard, Gaspard was sure of it. The man wouldn't take notice if the devil himself were to tango naked with an angel. His lips curved into the same cruel smile that had been upon his face before he shot the boy.

The same twenty men stood up silently. The same twenty guns took careful aim.

* * *

**And scene! I'm not sure if that counts as a cliffhanger or not (okay, it was definitely a cliffhanger, but please don't kill me). Sorry about the National Guard bashing, but they've got to be villainous for obvious reasons (come on, they shot Gavroche!). Next chapter will have more of Gavroche, promise. I'm not sure yet if he'll be in spirit form or living form, TBD.**

**And maybe the next chapter will also include naked tangoing (is that a word?) between the devil and an angel. Ya never know!**

**But in all seriousness that I am capable of (which is not a lot), Gavroche will be appearing in the next chapter. You have my word (which is not very reassuring if you know me, but it's all you're getting). I need to stop using parenthesises (is that a word either?), huh?**

**Maybe you've realized that I'm a little crazy by now, and enjoy writing shamelessly long notes in the beginning and end of chapters. C'est la vie!**

** French translations: bricon = fool, faible = weakling, putain traître = f**king traitor. Not very nice, that's for sure. Oh, and c'est la vie = that's life!**

** Thanks for reading, and as always, please review! Bye! :)**

**P.S.**

**Gaspard really needs to take a chill pill, huh? He sure likes to spit out words and saliva! Now, bye!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey guys! I'm back with chapter three. Don't worry, Gavroche is making an appearance as I did promise. **

**Thanks for the six new reviews! To Bookdancer, AnimeWolfAlienRaptor4, Hagios, FictionalCharacter, Emma, and Guest, thanks so much for the positive comments and constructive criticism! **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables. I only own OC's.**

* * *

Enjolras was furious. Courfeyrac could feel the anger emanating from him as they ran up the barricade. Yes, he was angry, but there was also an undercurrent of something else. It seemed to be fear. But that was ridiculous, Courfeyrac thought. Enjolras wasn't afraid of anything, was he? But on this night, Enjolras had been afraid. Twice.

Once when Gavroche had wandered out into the enveloping fog, and now, when Grantaire followed. He couldn't bear to lose two friends in one night, not even at the barricade, where death was handed out freely. Not even if it was Grantaire, who he had always looked down on in distain. But Enjolras knew, even if he tried to push him away, Grantaire would always be his friend. And the death of a friend was the one thing that frightened him, right down to his very core.

And so he ran down the barricade, feeling horribly exposed on the wrong side of the constructed wall. Courfeyrac was hot on his heels even as the others trailed behind. Courfeyrac had been very close to Grantaire and Gavroche, Enjolras remembered. The three of them had been inseparable, but especially Grantaire and Gavroche.

Suddenly, Enjolras realized that Courfeyrac had frozen ten feet behind him, eyes wide open in horror. He slowed and then stopped cold as a scene out of his worst nightmares unfolded.

Grantaire was standing there, holding something in his hand – a small leather bag, it looked like. A strap was attached, too short for anyone but a child. _It was Gavroche's_, Enjolras realized. The boy's body was nowhere to be seen, but this thought disappeared as soon as it came.

For standing not fifty feet away from Grantaire's stoic form was twenty men. Enjolras knew what was about to happen. A voice in his head screamed at him to grab Grantaire and run, but his feet wouldn't move. The sight of those twenty men froze the blood in his veins, for each of them was carrying a rifle. Enjolras knew that the butt of each rifle was emblazoned with a symbol, a letter N and a letter G entwined together, ending in snake heads – the symbol of the National Guard.

"_Grantaire!" _Courfeyrac screamed.

As if from far away, Enjolras watched as twenty rifles, the same twenty rifles that killed Gavroche, fired upon their newfound victim.

* * *

Arsenault walked away into the fog, aiming for the approximate place where he had seen the boy fall. Gaspard's last comment was true; the boy had little chance of survival. But the least he could do was give the body a proper burial.

He could still hear his father-in-law's voice echoing in his ears. "This National Guard is not what you expect," he had warned. "They are not heroes. To be honest, they are a bunch of cowards who enjoy killing. Or they are from poor families and joined the Guard to have bread to eat and a soft bed." Arsenault hadn't believed him, but now he could see the truth.

_Shooting a child_, he thought, shaking his head. _How in the world did the National Guard sink so low?_ Wrapped in his thoughts, he almost stepped on the very person he was trying to save. Luckily, he glanced down a moment before his black boot made contact. He quickly staggered backwards, almost falling over. The child was a mess.

The poor thing had been shot at least five times, but considering it could have been twenty, that wasn't so bad. The shots themselves were placed very fortunately. Arms, legs, but nothing vital, thank God. Even so, the boy could very well have bled to death by now. His face was pale and lifeless.

Even as he was upon the brink of death, or perhaps already there, Arsenault could tell that the boy was beautiful in the particular style only children could pull off. He would have grown into quite the looker, Arsenault thought with a gloomy half-smile.

He shook off the morbid thoughts and bent down to take the body away. But as he put his hands underneath the small form, a slight movement caught his eye. Had it been his imagination, or had that finger twitched?

It twitched again. Then the smallest of breaths escaped from his mouth, and Gavroche's eyelids fluttered open.

* * *

Grantaire didn't believe it; he didn't want to believe it. But there it was, lying on the ground.

A leather bag with a small strap attached.

Heat flooded his eyes, but he fiercely rubbed it away. _That's what you get for hoping, you fool. More pain. Nothing but pain._ He picked up the leather bag with shaking fingers.

This had been Gavroche's, there was no doubt about that. He had always carried around that little leather bag. Suddenly, a memory grabbed hold of him.

"Hey, 'Taire!" Gavroche loped easily to his side, a leather bag looped around his neck. Grantaire only noticed it now – Gavroche always wore that thing.

"What's in that bag you always carry 'round?" He asked as they walked aimlessly through the streets of Paris. "Just wondering." Gavroche didn't answer, and Grantaire saw the look on his face that meant he was reliving memories of his less-than-happy past. "Hey, if you don't want to, you don't have to tell me." Gavroche was still frowning. Grantaire sighed. "Whaddaya say to dinner at the café? On me." Gavroche brightened immediately.

"Sure, only you'd best be prepared with enough money. I plan to eat a lot." He grinned.

"Do you get enough food these days?"

"Well, not enough to satisfy, but enough to keep me and my two boys alive and kicking." He looked slightly guilty. "Ah…'Taire? Could you buy them dinner too? I mean, we've been living rough these past few days. Barely a mouthful between us, know what I mean?" He looked up hopefully. Grantaire groaned inwardly; it looked like he'd be the one without a mouthful tonight, but he couldn't say no to Gavroche.

"Sure, kiddo. 'Long as they don't eat too much; I'm not exactly sitting on a pile of francs right now." Gavroche laughed.

"I know, I know. Thanks, I owe you one."

Later that night, Gavroche invited his two little gamins into the café. The owner looked at them suspiciously. She dragged Grantaire over and hissed, "What in the Lord's name is going on, Grantaire? I'll not let a bunch of vagabonds eat in my café!"

"Madame, please give them a chance. They're starving, and I'll pay for everything, I promise."

"You can't pay for bad publicity! What will people think if gamins start feasting in my shop? They'll stop comin', that's what'll happen, and then I'll be the one starving!"

This was going to be harder than he thought. "If you're afraid of bad publicity, then couldn't you give them a private room to eat? I'll pay extra, of course." _If I can_.

"Well…" She hesitated, and Grantaire smoothly pressed two francs into her palm. She sighed. "Oh, alright. But just this once, because you're one of my best customers, got it? Don't go around telling people that this café accepts gamins and other filth." Grantaire smiled.

"Thank you, Madame."

Grantaire had spent his whole week's earnings on those three gamins – they ate like wild wolves – but it was worth it to make Gavroche happy. Not that he earned much every week, anyways.

"Hey, 'Taire?" He was walking the boys back to the elephant by the light of the crescent moon. "You asked about this thing I carry 'round, right?" Gavroche pointed at the leather bag.

"Yeah?" They arrived at the elephant. Grantaire helped the two little gamins up into the belly of the beast, hovering protectively as they clambered into the dark hole. He had grown fond of the two boys, just as he was fond of Gavroche.

"Well…Here, let's go over there." Grantaire followed Gavroche as they walked the shadow of a tall building. He sighed. "It's from my childhood, back before my parents gave me up. During the summer, there would always be shops set up outside, selling useless stuff like decorations and ornaments – just trying to get a bit of money, I guess." He shrugged. "Anyways, during this one summer, these really rich people came to the inn and stayed there a long, long time. We got paid off really well, too. So my parents took me and my sisters outside and told us that we could each get one little toy. We ran off and searched for the best toys. I eventually found a stall that sold stuffed toys. They had every kind you could dream up – dogs, cats, tigers, even dragons and unicorns. But it was the penguin that brought me there.

"It sounds pretty stupid, but the penguin was just so adorable. It looked like it always went to bed with a full stomach and a smile on its face. I wished that I could look like that, someday.

"It was clearly handmade, but it was still charming. It was pink, and had four friends. They were white, blue, brown, and a kind of fluffy fabric I've never seen before. Eponine and Azelma caught up soon enough, and they were openmouthed at the penguins too. So when Papa and Mother found us, we begged them for the penguins. We ended up getting the whole family at a discounted price – one for each of us. I got the pink one." He pulled something out of the leather bag and showed it to Grantaire.

It was the penguin toy. The chubby body and big round head were disproportioned, the flippers and feet were tiny, and yet – there was no other word for it – it was adorable. Grantaire could see immediately how a young Gavroche would fall in love with a simple toy so quickly.

"It really is charming. And you've kept it with you ever since?"

"It reminds me of a time when I had a family who wanted me. And I keep wishing that one day, I'll look happy and well-fed like he does." Gavroche smiled, serious for once.

"It's a he?" Grantaire was genuinely curious, as he'd only seen this side of Gavroche once in a blue moon.

"Yep. His name's Rêve-Mignon. Kind of strange, but there you go."

"It's unique." They stood there, staring at the toy for a while. Then Grantaire said,  
"You know you'll always be family to me, right, 'Vroche?" Gavroche grinned.

"I know." He embraced Grantaire tightly. Then he slipped the penguin back into his bag, and Grantaire knew his moment of seriousness had passed.

"So where'd you get the bag?" Gavroche's grin turned mischievous.

"I stole it off a lovely old gentleman in the Luxembourg Gardens."

"Gavroche!" Grantaire reprimanded, grinning. He ruffled the boy's hair. "And I always thought kids could do no wrong!"

"I'm not a _kid_," Gavroche protested. "'Sides, it didn't look like he wanted it anyways. He left it on a bench and walked off. So I wouldn't call it stealing, strictly speaking."

"Yeah, right." Grantaire laughed. "Was there anything in the bag?"

"S'matter of fact, there was – a journal, and a very pretty one at that. It was covered with little blue flowers and all."

"D'you give it back?"

"I tried to. I left it on the same bench, and it was gone the next day. Either he picked it up or somebody else did." Gavroche smirked. Grantaire shook his head, feigning worry.

"Someday you're gonna go and get yourself arrested, and then I'd have to spend my whole life savings to bail you out. Then what would we do, penniless in the middle of Paris?" They both chuckled. Then they headed back to the elephant, where Grantaire helped Gavroche up and bid him good night. He walked away thinking about that penguin.

Grantaire realized he had been standing, frozen, while the memory ran its course. He could feel tears running down his cheeks, but he made no move to wipe them away. _The penguin_. Was it still inside the bag? But as he reached in, his fingers encountered nothing but the supple leather. Where was it?

He felt an irrational fear come over him as his eyes hunted the ground, looking for a hint of pink. _Where is it? Where is it?!_ Then he saw it. A feeling of relief washed over him, as unexplainable as the terror.

It was hiding behind a scrap of black fabric, right by his foot – he had almost stepped on it. He bent down to pick it up.

He heard Courfeyrac scream his name.

* * *

When Gavroche fell, the sound of guns ringing in his ears, he had known he was going to die. The basket fell out of his numb fingers and crashed down on the ground next to him. _Strange,_ he thought. _It doesn't hurt_. The only thing he could feel was numbness, slowly stealing through his body. And there was a wetness, spreading from his splayed limbs.

A vision of Grantaire appeared before him, tears coursing down his cheeks. Gavroche smiled weakly. _I'm so sorry, Grantaire. I didn't mean for this to happen. Please stop crying._ He tried to think of a way to comfort him. _I don't feel any pain. I don't feel much of anything now._ A small sigh escaped his numb lips. _I didn't see them until the very end. I was being stupid and careless. Forgive me, please. Don't think this is your fault; it isn't. It's all mine. I'm sorry, 'Taire._

He thought of Eponine, dead at the barricade. He thought of the two little gamins he had taken in, hopefully sleeping by now. He thought of his leather bag, and his fingers closed involuntarily on the strap. He hoped they would bury him with it.

When he had joined the barricade, his mind had been full of thoughts of a heroic end. But this wasn't heroic at all. None of the deaths at the barricade had been heroic. They were all just schoolboys shot down for going too far with their radical ideas to change the future. He was just a gamin, foolhardy and reckless – and he was paying for it with his life. Now that it was at last time to leave it all, he found he didn't want to go.

Gavroche hadn't had enough of the world yet. He was just ten years old, and would have celebrated – as much as he could – his eleventh birthday in just six weeks. He was too young to die, but only realized it on the brink of death. There was no going back now.

Regretfully, he thought of his best friend, his protector, his brother – Grantaire. _I didn't mean for this to happen._ Then he had closed his eyes for what he believed to be the last time.

But now he was staring at a man standing over him, with no idea of what was going on. The man was wearing the unmistakable jacket of the National Guard, black pants, and black boots. Gavroche tried to wriggle away, but as soon as his muscles contracted, a bolt of agony shot through him that nearly made him faint again.

"It's alright, gamin. I'm here to help you." He had a strong yet melodious voice, not that different from Enjolras's. "Don't move, you'll only make things worse. I'm going to get you to a doctor."

Gavroche was confused – this man was clearly part of the National Guard, yet he claimed to want to help him? He must be lying, Gavroche decided. He was preparing himself to fight when the man picked him up.

Immediately, his wounds – wherever they were – protested, a wave of agony forcing a cry from his throat. He barely held back a second scream, not wanting to seem weak. Gavroche gritted his teeth and pounded on the man's leg.

He only managed to tear a bit of fabric away before the pain shot through him again. The fabric fell through his fingers as he screamed.

"Don't move, gamin! I'm not here to hurt you!" The man thought for a moment, then added, "I'm Arsenault."

A flood of understanding and relief washed over Gavroche at the sound of that name, and he stopped fighting. He let Arsenault carry him away, letting go and allowing himself to faint.

He saw it just before his eyes closed.

The leather bag had fallen from his body, lying open and empty on the ground.

* * *

**I like writing flashbacks...**

**And so Grantaire is still in harm's way. I was going to write him out of that sticky spot in this chapter, but oh well. Next chapter, he'll be out of there, one way or another! As for Gavroche, you'll see later why that penguin was necessary…ish. I'm still not sure if he should live or not but I'm thinking about it. As always, please review and I'll see you next time!**


End file.
